


As Long As There’s Christmas

by nwspaprtaxis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Catatonia, Christmas, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feral Behavior, Gen, HoodieTimePrompt, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Breakdown, Mental Disintegration, Mental Instability, Post-Episode: s03e16 No Rest For The Wicked, Post-Hell, Post-Season/Series 03 Finale, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Bobby Singer, Protective Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 04:14:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwspaprtaxis/pseuds/nwspaprtaxis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has always been the big brother, but now, maybe, it’s Sam’s turn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Long As There’s Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anonymous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous/gifts).



> _**A/N:**_ This is my fill for an [Anonymous Prompt](http://hoodie-time.livejournal.com/746163.html?thread=9869747#t9869747) at **hoodie_time** 's [A Dean-centric Wish List/Wish Fulfillment Party!](http://hoodie-time.livejournal.com/746163.html) which went thusly: _WISH 1. It's Dean's first Christmas after Sam and Bobby rescue Dean from Hell (no Ruby, and if they got help from the angels rescuing Dean they don't know it). Since the rescue he's been going through severe PTSD, and doesn't seem to know where he is or remember Sam or Bobby. You can go the wild feral route if you want, but I see him as catatonic with Sam trying to bring him out of it. Then finally Sam gives him his present, the amulet he went back and retrieved. Something about that, the Christmas lights, and the eggnog start to draw him out of it._ I hope this one fills the bill — even though it’s probably less fluffy than the original prompter intended. Sorry it's taken me so long to post this!
> 
> AU of Season 4, so no spoilers after the Season 3 finale, _3x16 NO REST FOR THE WICKED_.
> 
> Special thanks to: **tifaching** and **amber1960 / amberdreams** for the rock hard betas. And bonus thanks to those who pre-read this and hand-held my muse through this and for easing me out of my five-month writer’s block…
> 
>  _ **Disclaimer:**_ Do not own. Am not making a profit. Just simply having fun with their psyches and returning them slightly more battered to Kripke and Co. and all that Yada Yada. Title comes from the song of the same name from _Beauty and the Beast: The Enchanted Christmas_ — I don’t own that either.

Sam feels his breath stutter and catch somewhere in his chest as he steps into Bobby’s library. This part never gets easier. He never knows which version of his brother he’s going to encounter — the half feral, lethal weapon or the virtual catatonic. The dark figure crouched in the corner beside the Christmas tree is motionless and doesn’t acknowledge his presence. Sam swallows. _Catatonia, then._ He knows it doesn’t mean Dean won’t become a snarling animal in a blink. He hopes Dean won’t. He doesn’t think he has the strength to restrain his brother if it comes to it. Not tonight, at least. Not when his shoulder still aches from the last time Dean went berserk, two nights ago. He adjusts his left arm, using his abdomen to hold the small package in his damaged hand as he snakes his way through the cramped space, padding on socked feet around piles of books and stacks of papers — most of them, he knows, are about crossroads and deals and gates to Hell and spells for unbinding and resealing — toward the Christmas tree. The fresh-smelling pine takes up most of the space in the far corner, crammed up behind Bobby’s desk, its multicolored lights the only illumination in the room.

Sam risks a glance out the window, where snow is falling heavily. So far the seal seems to be holding. Even now, when the veil is thin and worn by the tilt of the earth’s axis, the seal seems to hold. The winter equinox came and went three nights ago, but surrounded by holidays and traditions; Saturnalia, Hanukkah, Christmas, it can’t hurt to be too careful. It’d held up through All Hallows Eve too, but, yet, Sam won’t let himself relax.

Sam steps further into the room, his left leg dragging slightly, and pauses by Bobby’s desk, where he carefully sets down the metal thermos full of boozy eggnog and two red plastic Solo cups. He fumbles, his bad hand knocking into his wares. The empty cups tip over with a hollow bouncing sound and Sam rights them, casting a furtive glance at the far corner. The dark figure there hasn’t moved. Sam lets out a soundless, relieved, exhale. He turns back to the table and, with his working hand, eases out a small flat package wrapped in the Sunday comics from the loose grip of his nerveless hand and sets it down before continuing on to his brother.

He stops when he’s a couple of paces before the tree and drops into a squat, grimacing as it pulls on his torn leg muscles. He lowers himself further until he’s sitting and the pain lets up.

“Dean?” he says, keeping his voice low and gentle. The hunched-up figure doesn’t move. “Dean?” Sam repeats, this time slightly louder.

The only reaction he gets is a low, frenetic humming and in the warm red-orange glow of the multicolored tree he can see Dean’s fingers — crooked, clawed-in, broken more times than Sam can count — drumming against sweatpants-clad shins. Sam slides closer, inch by careful inch. Dean’s wearing a borrowed sweatshirt, butter-soft and way too big, its hood pulled low over his forehead and he’s got a blanket dragged up high around his shoulders.

It takes a moment but Sam identifies the wordless, off-tune humming as Led Zeppelin and he almost exhales in relief. It’s not Irving Berlin’s _Cheek To Cheek_. When it is the latter, it’s harder to reach his brother, to penetrate the hold Hell still has on him. At least tonight Dean’s in there somewhere.

He inches closer until they’re almost side-by-side. “Dean?” Sam tries again, not expecting a response. Predictably, Dean doesn’t acknowledge him but his restlessly drumming fingers still. “It’s just me. It’s Sam,” he presses on. “I got you out, remember? You’re not in Hell anymore.” He swallows. “I got you out,” he repeats.

Dean doesn’t say anything, doesn’t physically respond and Sam feels he might as well not have spoken at all. Sam grimaces as he stretches out his leg in front of him. The scars twinge and pull and then subside into a dull throb. He knows he’s no good for hunting anymore, not with his gimp hand on top of the limp, but it doesn’t matter. There’s no way Dean can hunt either. _Hel_ — Sam stops himself from finishing the curse. The word isn’t appropriate anymore, not after the things Dean’s endured. Shit, Dean can’t even get his socks on, let alone use a fork these days. Sam squeezes his eyes shut, trying to block out the memory of seeing his brother strung up, gutted like a fish, and still _screaming_. He barely remembers how they got out… He’d cut Dean down, slung his healing, begging brother across his shoulders in a fireman carry and climbed. At some point, the demons must’ve latched their claws into him; that much he knows, and then there was a shit-ton of nothing until he woke up days later in the hospital.

That was four months ago. Back in September. It’s December now, Christmas Eve, and Sam’s healed since then.

Sam studies Dean, who’s staring at the lights of the Christmas tree. His expression is blank but his eyes are transfixed, intent and alert. Then Sam becomes aware of the way Dean is hunched on himself, as though his midsection hurts. Healing muscles were always a bunch of shits and giggles and Dean’s been loaded with them since that day in May when he was dragged down into the Pit like some kind of hellhound chew toy.

“Painkiller time,” Sam announces, rising to his feet with a grimace and grunt. He goes back to Bobby’s desk where it takes him a moment to figure out how to carry everything back to Dean. In the end, he forces the gift into his useless hand and stacks the cups, putting the thermos filled with eggnog into them. He picks up the stacked cups with the fingers of his good hand, gripping them tightly as he curls his thumb around the plastic orange prescription bottle.

It’s harder to lower himself with his hands occupied but he manages. Dean flinches at movement so close to his personal space, but doesn’t freak out.

Sam sets the cups on the floor by his bent leg and pries open the childproof safety cap. He tips out a couple of pills into his cupped palm, presses them against Dean’s lips. “C’mon, open up, bro. I know you’re hurting. This will help.”

There’s resistance.

“Please,” Sam adds softly and Dean lets them pass, a mouthful of eggnog from the thermos Sam holds to his mouth helping them down. Dean’s Adam’s apple bobs as he lets Sam tilt the bottle higher. Dean swallows and his only concession is an eyebrow raised in surprise.

“Yeah,” Sam says with a smile. “Merry Christmas, dude.” He falls quiet and they sit looking at the tree quietly for a few moments before Sam pushes the crudely wrapped package at Dean. He’s afraid if he waits too long he’ll lose his nerve.

At first Dean doesn’t know what to do with it. His gaze focuses on the newsprint in his hands and his fingers pluck ineffectually at the tape. The cuffs of his sweatshirt, tattered from weeks of restless anxiety and fidgeting slip over his hands and he settles for simply cradling the still-wrapped gift. Sam reaches out and peels back the tape. He tears the paper gently apart until… there, in a nest of _Peanuts_ and _Zits_ and _Crankshaft_ is the amulet. It glitters in the hard light of the Christmas tree.

Sam watches Dean with bated breath. The tension in the air is so thick it crackles with static electricity. He’s gone over this moment a thousand times in his mind — Dean coming back to himself, a replay of that Christmas in Broken Bow, Nebraska a lifetime ago, complete with a shy smile and halting words as he slips the brass charm around his neck. But he hadn’t prepared for this — no reaction at all. He’s disappointed and more than a little hurt that it hadn’t been enough. That Dean maybe is too far gone in his own head to ever come back. He opens his mouth to say something inane and babbling and reassuring to fill the void between them when Dean lets out an odd strangled sound that borders on a scream and flings the amulet and paper from him.

He throws himself into the far corner, huddling on himself, hands gripping his head just above his ears, tucking down his chin in drawn-up knees, and keening.

It’s a horrible sound, one that Sam wouldn’t have thought any human could make, let alone his big brother — wounded and desperate, full of pain and suffering. It goes on and on, low in Dean’s throat, a high-pitched whining.

Sam’s frozen in place, pinned by Dean’s near-screaming, powerless to even begin figuring out how to make it better, almost afraid to approach his rocking brother. He opens his mouth to call for Bobby when suddenly the older hunter is there, still in his Kiss-The-Cook apron and holding a silicone spatula in one hand. He sets down the utensil and gets to his knees. Sam can hear joints crackle and pop as the older man settles.

Bobby’s less cautious than Sam — he gets in Dean’s space immediately and pins Dean against his chest into a bear-hug before Dean can throw any punches. Dean’s too startled to do much more than a token squirm and instead keeps making that awful cry while grabbing at his hair in hanks, hyperventilating almost to the point of passing out, his damaged core muscles preventing him from taking a deep enough breath to break the cycle. Bobby doesn’t let go and shifts around until he’s sitting, Dean pulled against him.

“It’s just me, Dean. It’s Bobby,” he says firmly. “You’re not in the Pit.”

Dean’s still breathing shallowly and desperately as Bobby begins rubbing his hands up and down Dean’s back in broad strokes and Sam can make out mumbled words in between the hitches and whimpers, a steady litany of _no_ and _don’t_ and _can’t_.

With a pointed look at Sam that holds neither blame nor recrimination, Bobby softens his gruff tone. “It’s gonna be okay, son. No one’s gonna make you do anything you don’t wanna do. You got out. You’re safe. It’s all right. I got it. You don’t need to worry about anything — Sam’s okay. I got you.”

Dean’s still keening softly, murmuring _I can’t_ from time to time as Sam crawls across the room and picks up the amulet and crumpled paper before returning to his brother’s side. Dean’s got his face buried in Bobby’s shoulder, the older man cupping the back of his head, keeping it there, but Dean’s quiet now, breathing almost normal except for the odd hitch.

Sam isn’t sure how long they stay there. At some point the oven timer goes off and, an indeterminable amount of time later, the smell of burning meat wafts through the open double-doors but none of them move. Finally, _finally_ , the ragged hitches stop and Dean stills, not moving from Bobby’s hold.

Then, so softly, so slurred that Sam almost thinks he’s imagined it, Dean whispers, “I’m not strong enough. I can’t take care of Sam.” It’s the most Sam’s ever heard him say since May. The words feel like a physical blow and he looks down at the amulet still cradled in his hand. Tears blur his vision for a moment and he shuts his eyes, willing them back. Such an innocent gift — a moment of betrayal, the switching of recipients... Sam remembers telling Dean that it was for Dad, how insistent Dean had been that it should be saved for Dad before grudgingly accepting it. And for a moment Sam is disgusted — at Dad, at himself. He looks up and Dean is so small, curled up in Bobby’s brawny, workhorse arms, fingers plucking at torn, unraveling cuffs.

“Dean,” Sam hears himself say, his voice low and tender, matching Bobby’s tone. It’s normally one he reserves for traumatized victims and he hates associating such vulnerability with his brother. Bobby nudges his shoulder, gently turning Dean’s head until he’s looking at the tree again.

Sam exhales, scoots in closer until he’s in Dean’s space, his knees almost touching Bobby’s. He holds out the amulet.

Dean flinches, whimpers, and Sam retracts his hand slowly. After a moment of hesitation, he slips the worn string over his head and feels it settle around his neck. It’s heavier than he’d expected but at the same time it makes him draw back his shoulders. “How about I wear this for a little while? Just until you’re ready?”

Dean tentatively reaches out, fingers the amulet and lets his hand fall to his side. He straightens slowly, compensating for his aching stomach muscles, clearly exhausted. Bobby releases Dean, giving him space.

Bobby looks at Sam as he picks up the spatula and rises to his feet. “I’m going to get rid of that roast and call out for pizza.” There’s a pause then, softly, “You got ‘im?”

Sam nods, “Yeah, I got him,” he says as he slides his left arm around Dean, pulling up and resettling the blanket around his brother’s shoulders, simultaneously tugging Dean closer to his side.

With a grunt, Bobby departs and then there’s the low squeal as the sliding doors shut. Sam feels Dean slump into him, head coming to rest on his shoulder. His brother’s fingers are still picking nervously at his cuffs, widening the tears, ripping the soft, ribbed cotton, eyes staring at the tree. Sam shifts until they’re both more comfortable and looks up at the tree, taking in the bright lights and colored balls and strings of shedding tinsel.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Bobby really outdid himself this year, didn’t he?”


End file.
